Kiefer, the more silent twin, peeks around the hutch. “I seen mud on Lirra.”
“Get back in your hiding spot,” I growl at him before spinning to face Loren. “Don’t pull me into this. You were foolish enough to get caught, so say you’re sorry already.”
He starts to complain, and Eugenia silences him with a look. The boys rush toward freedom in the shape of the back door. That’s when I notice the specks.
Specks coating their trousers.
Specks on Loren’s boots.
Specks that look an awful lot like wood shavings?
“Stop! Where have you two been?”
“Outside.” Loren smirks over his shoulder.
“Where outside?”
“The shed.”
“Which. Shed.” My nostrils flare.
Kiefer cringes.
“Lirra, let them go,” Eugenia says.
My glider wings are in that shed. If the boys touched them . . . “Tell me. Or this week at the summit festivities, I’ll find the she-pirate, Song the Red, and pay her to sail you to Kolontia. The north is terribly cold. So cold that men and boys lose toes and feet and even legs. How fast will you run without legs, hmm, Loren? Tell me now—woodshed or my shed?”
“Yours,” Kiefer blurts. His cherry cheeks turn pale pear green. “We only wanted a peek.”
“We didn’t touch nothing, promise.” Loren presses his hands together in a prayer. “Spare me legs, Lir.”
I hold in a smile. “Keep your stubby limbs for now, Loren. But if you—”
Eugenia scoots them out the door. “Don’t be hard on them.”
“They need to keep their dirty hands off my things.”
“What do you expect, Lirra? They look up to you, and you run around breaking rules as if you’ve no responsibilities.”
“No responsibilities?” Anger twists through me faster than the twin tornados could destroy my stuff. “My responsibilities force me to break rules. My job for Da requires it.”
She yanks a pin out of her bun, and her hair topples like a bird’s nest breaking apart. “Don’t pretend to be dedicated to your da’s work when you spend all your time on gliders.”
I gape at her, wounded by the insinuation. My family matters most. If Da asked me to pay more attention to his business, I’d do it. But he doesn’t ask. He doesn’t include me in every deal. He doesn’t share all his secrets, as much as I’d like him to.
“What of your dedication?” I stomp to the window and point at the carriage parked inside the barrier of trees concealing our home. “Every week you visit the cathedral and make penance. Maybe instead of praying so much, you should notice how hard Da works for you. For the family.”
Eyes widen over a stone expression. “Nonsense. You’re angry because the boys were curious. I understand that, but you cannot blame them. Your contraptions look like children’s toys.”
Children’s toys? Will the jubilee organizers think my glider is child’s play too?
My fingernails dig crescents into my palms. “Was it curiosity when they broke your Plovian vase? The vase you insisted Da buy with his black-market money? Don’t be a hypocrite.” It comes out like spat venom.
Last year the twins knocked over the vase. Eugenia was shattered. That same colorless devastation overtakes her expression now.
A baby’s cry peals from the hallway.
I bite my vindictive lip. “I—I shouldn’t have said that.”
“Julisa’s awake.” Eugenia gives me a look of defeat and leaves.
I return to where Orli is waiting for me in the attic, my chest stuffy and hot with frustration. And shame.
It’s not her fault that Da is gone. Or that he takes on too much work and doesn’t allow me to help manage the load. He has me deliver messages to informants, listen to private conversations, and track people’s habits, but he never asks for more. He tries to manage most of the work alone.
Loren and Kiefer are too young to help, and I doubt Eugenia would let them get involved in Da’s business even if they were older. I’m the only one he can lean on. It’s up to me to help him. Eugenia is right. I should be focusing on Da’s letter, not my gliders.
“Whoa, what happened?” Orli watches me climb the ladder. “You look ready to practice dagger throwing on a live target.”
I dig through my satchel for the letter. I peel it open and remove the letter to AC.
Hullo Beetle,
I’ll not be returning in time for the summit.
The rest of the page is blank.
“This cannot be all there is.” I flip it over. Da would never use this much parchment for so short a note, or ask me to deliver a letter with no instructions. His message must be here, hidden.
Orli peers over my shoulder and hums to herself.
I trace the blank page. “I wonder if he used a blood charm. Da’s never used one before. Blood charms are illegal, and even if they weren’t, they’re hard to come by,” I say, remembering what Astoria taught us. “But it would explain why there are no words.”
She releases a shuddery breath and taps the letter. “Right. And we are talking about Millner.”
“I guess there’s only one way to find out.” I pull a dagger from my boot.
Orli sits on the bed, trembling fingers sliding under her thighs. “Go on.”
I hate that magic makes her uncomfortable. But I have to know what Da wrote. I sink the blade’s tip into the fleshy pad of my finger. A crimson drop bubbles from my skin and drips onto the ivory parchment, fanning out as it seeps into the surface.
Hullo Beetle,
I’ll not be returning in time for the summit.
If you’re reading this, you figured out the blood charm. The following job must be completed immediately and privately. As you can tell, secrecy is of greatest importance.
To fulfill an agreement I’ve made with the king of Malam, you must deliver the enclosed letter to him. Don’t curse. I know this assignment will displease you, but it must be done.
The king’s letter has also been sealed with a blood charm. You’ll find nothing there if you attempt to peek. Please explain to King Aodren how these types of charms are activated. The man’s Channeler knowledge is in the budding stage.
Deliver the letter before the summit is underway. It cannot be late. Tell no one and go unseen.
Give my love to Eugenia, the boys, and Julisa.
Love, Da
“Bloody stars.”
I’m not displeased. I’m furious.
What deal has my father made? King Aodren cares nothing for Channelers. Hell, his kingdom has encouraged the hunting of Channelers for the last twenty years. This is why my father and I were forced to flee Malam and live in Shaerdan. King Aodren may have ended the Purge Proclamation, the horrific law that was responsible for the deaths of countless Channelers in Malam for the last twenty years, but he did so out of desperation. Last year, King Aodren needed the Channelers Guild, the governing women who oversee all Channelers in the five kingdoms, to save his life and help stop a plot to usurp the throne.
My efforts to save Orli caused my path to cross Aodren’s. I was the one who introduced him to the Guild, and I even saved his life in battle. But has he ever expressed his gratitude for either?
No. Not at all. Ungrateful lout of a king.
King Aodren cares only about himself.
Da has all sorts of unsavory business associates, and though I dislike it, it’s not so shocking to discover King Aodren is a new one. Royal coin is as good as commoner coin. What I don’t understand, however, is why the king of Malam needs help from Da, ruler of the underground.
I press my fist to the sudden bloom of ache in my belly. I want to forget this request and finish my glider. But Eugenia’s comment earlier nags me. Da needs me. And maybe this is the way to finally prove he can rely on me.
Chapter
2
Aodren
MY ATTENTION CATCHES ON A FLASH OF colors as gold and blue Shaerdanian tunics enter the far e
nd of the mud-streaked training yard. Not counting the half dozen guards standing at attention nearby, until now Leif and I have had the field alone to spar. The two newcomers must be the men who have been chosen to represent Shaerdan’s ruler, Chief Judge Auberdeen, in the upcoming Tournament of Champions at the All Kingdoms’ Summit.
When the tournament first began, each kingdom’s ruler and their second fought a mock battle to prove their strength and leadership mettle. Decades ago, after the Plovian king lost his life, the rulers decided participation was too dangerous, and tradition changed. Now the most skilled warriors in the land vie to fight in place of their leader.
Leif, the first of my chosen competitors, swings his practice sword through the air. I thrust upward to block. It’s too late. His waster slams my left arm. Bone-rattling pain lances from elbow to shoulder, and my weapon hits the ground.
Godstars! “Solid strike.” I suck a breath between my teeth to temper the pain.
“Are you whistling, sir?” Leif chuckles.
Glaring, I straighten my posture, regain some of the dignity he knocked away, and switch to breathing through my nose, despite the moisture that clings to my nostrils. Shaerdan’s humidity is also out to kill me today.
“I shouldn’t have landed that,” Leif says in a low voice. In my periphery, I notice one of the ever-present guards avert his gaze, and I wonder if he heard Leif’s comment. It’s too sympathetic for the captain of the royal guard—the elite force of the most skilled combatants in Malam. He needs to control that emotion if he and Baltroit, the other Malamian competitor, are to prove they’re the best fighters in the five kingdoms. Grit wins tournaments, not sympathy.
The last All Kingdoms’ Summit was five years ago, and I didn’t attend. It’s more important than ever that we have a good showing during the tournament. We must prove to the other leaders, my late father’s peers, and to Malamians that Malam is worthy of being here. That I am worthy of being here.
I roll out my bruised shoulder. “I shouldn’t have let you. On the battlefield, distraction means death.”
Leif watches the Shaerdanians through the slits in his helmet. “Lucky there’s no risk here.” He reaches for the fallen practice waster and swings it in an arc. “Not with this blunted sword.”
I move into position. “Enough talk.”
“Oh, you’re recovered? Ready to get beat?” Exhaustion helps Leif forget himself, a benefit of our sparring sessions. Too often, he lapses into the formality he feels the captain of the royal guard should maintain around the king. He forgets I am just a man and he is my closest, if not only, friend.
Chuckling, I switch grips to take the sword in my dominant right hand. “Captain and court jester, let’s see how you fare now.”
He snorts and swings his waster. I’ve spent the last six months training with Leif. I’ve studied his movement. He is quick, but I’m faster. I block his blade and push my weight into his. He stumbles. A vulnerable space opens between his elbow and ribs, and I strike. Leif grunts against the pain.
The rhythm of our clanks and curses echoes across the yard. This rigorous sparring session keeps Leif competition-ready for the Tournament of Champions. And it tempers the uneasiness that came on earlier today when my traveling retinue exited the forest and first beheld Shaerdan’s summer castle. The stone fortress is designated for all leaders and dignitaries during the summit and sits north of Celize like a solemn gray throne.
My absence from the last summit sparked rumors that spread like a scourge. King Aodren’s too young. Soon he’ll be just like his hateful father and the blood-spilling regent. Malam’s people are divided, and the kingdom is weak. Under King Aodren, only time remains until the kingdom falls.
Malam’s history has more shameful spots than the sky has stars.
My father was a prejudiced man, whose fear of Channelers spread to his advisers and led to the Purge—a kingdom-wide Channeler eradication spanning nearly two decades. The feverish hunt for magic users turned neighbor on neighbor. After my father died when I was a child, a regent ruled until I came of age. He closed the Malamian borders so no one could leave or enter Malam. Trade halted and our economy suffered. This dark time was further blackened when, a year ago, the regent didn’t want to relinquish power. He led a coup, killing hundreds of citizens and half of Malam’s nobility.
The rumors hold some truth—I am the youngest ruler at the summit, my people are divided between support and opposition for Channelers, and Malam has been weakened.
But I won’t be my father.
I won’t allow Malam to fall.
When Leif and I are both aching and bruised, we stop fighting. I lean on my sword, breath sawing through my lungs. Leif tugs off his helmet. He swipes sweat from his beard and shakes out his hair. The usual amber color is now a slick mud-brown. “I could sleep till the first night of the tournament.”
My thoughts as well. However, “It wouldn’t do well to miss dinner.”
Leif mutters an unenthused agreement.
Once our gear is stored in the yard house, two guards follow me and Leif off the field.
“See how in sync they are?” Leif glances at the Shaerdanians before they’re out of sight. “If Baltroit would practice here, we’d have a better chance of winning the cup.”
I scratch the day’s stubble on my jaw. The summit, the tournament, and the jubilee are key factors in turning Malam’s tide. We must do well in all three. When Lord Segrande insisted his son be chosen as the second competitor, I complied. Segrande was integral in the negotiations to reopen trade with Shaerdan, and going forward, his support is necessary to boost Malam’s economy. While Segrande and I form alliances and trade agreements during summit meetings, Baltroit and Leif will be fighting in the Tournament of Champions.
Thousands of Malamians have traveled to Shaerdan to attend the events. A tournament win will inspire pride. It’ll give Malamians a reason to rally together. A reason to set aside their differences. And hopefully, later, a reason to spread unity back in Malam.
Baltroit is a fierce fighter, but he’s arrogant and refuses to train with Leif. While I could order Baltroit to the practice yard, it may offend Segrande, who has spent as much time training his son as I have with Leif.
“He won’t let us down,” I say, determined. “The two of you will do well.”
Leif shoots me a look that argues otherwise.
The castle’s grand hall is a clamor of voices, thuds, and scrapes, all under the aroma of rosemary and bread. As we pass through, conversation dims and everyone in sight bows. Our boots clack loudly against the stone stairs leading to the third floor, where Malam’s private rooms are assigned. The two guards who followed us from the practice field take up posts at our closed corridor, while Leif enters my chambers.
He points to the stack of letters on the desk. “The courier delivered these to the castle. Also, the welcome meal will begin in two hours.”
Half of Malam’s fiefs have new leadership, and the repeal of the Purge Proclamation has made it possible for Channelers to return to Malam. A difficult transition, to say the least. To stay abreast of brewing tension, each lord reports on his fiefdom. Even during the summit.
“Inform Lord Segrande and tell him to come to my chambers at a quarter till.” I start toward the washroom.
Leif lingers. “Your Highness, one more thing.”
Your Highness. Few dare meet my eye, let alone speak to me directly. Some decorum is expected, but Leif’s slip back into formality is aggravating. And isolating. “I’m scarcely six months older than you, and not a quarter-hour ago, you were trying to hit me with a practice sword. Call me by my given name.”
“You’re the king.” He coughs into his fist.
“I’m aware. Trust me, rigid formality isn’t always requisite. Understood?”
“Aye.” His gaze shifts to the door. “At tonight’s dinner, though, it’ll be formal. Yes?”
“Yes. But you may talk with the other dignitaries.”
“I
—I’m not sure I can.” A maroon tint stains his neck. He yanks his beard. It’s hard to reconcile the man before me with the bear from the practice field. “Thing is, talking is not my strength.”
Leif has notable battle experience, good rapport with the royal guard, and is unfailingly loyal, but he is also new to nobility. Too busy trying to bring Malam out of the darkness, I’ve overlooked his greenness.
“Talk about the tournament,” I suggest. “King Gorenza will no doubt have much to say, since his youngest son is competing.”
“Could work.” He focuses on the floor stones for a long minute. “I won’t be skilled like Captain Omar was with conversation. But I’ll try.”
I laugh, loud and irreverent. The long day is bringing out Leif’s wit and humor.
But he doesn’t join in, his mouth is pressed into a grim line.
Oh gods. Is he serious? My previous captain spoke in monosyllabic sentences.
“Leif.” I restrain my laughter. Composure has been drilled into me since birth. “Omar used to say it’s the message that matters. Remember that. Treat this dinner like those at Castle Neart.”
“I mostly talk to Britta at Castle Neart. She’s not here.”
The comment comes unexpectedly.
The words settle over me like a scratchy wool throw. Britta and her husband are on their wedding trip instead of attending the summit. It’s odd to consider her married, since I once hoped she would share my life. But . . . Britta is on my council. We will continue to work together. She will still be a friend.
“You’ll do fine,” I say, tone clipped.
Silence, and then, “Certainly, sir.” Leif bows and leaves my chambers.
So much for convincing him to use my name. I walk to the desk and study the letters, though it’s a fight to focus on any one of them. Perhaps Leif is right to remind me that friendships should be the furthest thing from my mind right now.
My focus must be Malam.
Once a King Page 2